


Premier Peintre du Roi

by BeepGrandCherokeeper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bottom Hank, Fade to Black, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:24:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeepGrandCherokeeper/pseuds/BeepGrandCherokeeper
Summary: Connor swallows down a lump in his throat, temporarily overwhelmed. The moment passes at a crawl, and he wishes they were downstairs, where he could get his supplies and capture what he sees forever. It would only be for them – for him, even, since Hank doesn’t like to look at himself – but Connor feels the urge so strongly he clenches his fists against it. He already knows which paints he’d mix to recreate the shadows under Hank’s jaw, how he would fix Hank’s eyes directly to his in a stare that’s both a challenge and a plea. He wants to.





	Premier Peintre du Roi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lumbeam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/gifts).



> _"The Premier peintre du Roi (First painter to the King) was a post within the administration of the Bâtiments du Roi of the Département de la Maison du Roi in France under the Ancien Régime."_
> 
> Connor is an apprentice under Carl Manfred, the king's court painter, and works in his studio. Months ago, he was assigned to handle the portraits of some minor nobles in the king's court, including Sir Henry "Hank" Anderson. Their connection was instant, and over time, their relationship deepened.

Sometime after midnight, long before the sun is due to rise, Connor wakes with a pressing need to use the chamber pot. He’s slow to get up, blinking up into the dark rafters of his bedroom to clear sleep from his eyes. A heavy arm rests over his chest, pinning him in place as the other man in his bed snores loudly. Connor takes a deeper breath than is necessary. It fills his chest, subtly shifting Hank’s hand against his pectoral when his body moves. The sensation sends chills down his spine – he shivers again, his body coming alive with the realization that it’s cold without his nightshirt. His space is drafty, and the bedclothes tangled around his legs don’t do much in the way of warmth.

He slips out from beneath Hank’s weight and rolls out of bed, squinting to see where they left their clothes earlier that night.

“Of course,” he murmurs, feeling with his toes as a last resort. When he finds nothing, he returns to the side of the bed and grasps blindly for his tallow candle.

Connor tries not to use it, as a rule. He can only afford so much, even with Hank’s patronage and his work under Carl’s studio. It’s easier to make do than it is to shell out pennies for candles. Tonight, though, no stars shine through the thin cracks in his shutters, and the moon waned into nothingness the night before. Better to strike a match than break his foot stumbling around in the dark.

Glancing at Hank, praying he doesn’t wake, Connor lights the candle and leaves it on his side table.

His space is small and spartan, at best. Most of one wall is occupied by empty wood frames, spares discarded by Carl just waiting for Connor to stretch canvas across them. They cast eerie shadows on the floor, flickering in the candlelight. He has a single stool, positioned near the window, and a journal he uses for pencil sketches sits nearby. Besides that, the table, a chest for his clothing, and his bed, he has no furniture.

It’s a far cry from Hank’s estate in the palace, opulent to Connor despite its simplicity – and yet Hank is here, with him. He would live in worse hovels if it meant they might share it.

Retrieving the chamber pot from under the bed, Connor relieves himself briskly and stores it away again. Then he goes hunting for his nightshirt, rooting through the garments abandoned in an untidy pile near the bedroom door. Goosebumps raise the hair on his arms, another cool spring wind leaking into his room through the wall. His teeth clack together before he clenches them.

“What are you doing?” a rough, rasping voice asks.

Connor freezes, bent over with Hank’s waistcoat in his hands. He stands up straight and resists the urge to hold it over his nakedness.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, folding the garment mostly out of habit. Leaving it atop the chest, he catches a glimpse of off-white fabric trapped between the chest and his wall: his nightshirt. Lost there when he’d flung it away, probably. He digs it out and shrugs it over his head.

Hank grunts. When Connor’s face makes its way out of the shirt, he turns to look at him and finds one blue eye staring back. The other is hidden by Hank’s pillow, one hand grasping at the fabric as his legs shift restlessly. He’s only partially conscious, Connor realizes with a smile.

“Cold,” Hank grumbles, burrowing deeper into the mattress. He’s as bare as Connor was, thick with years of over-indulgence and hairy enough that Connor thinks about cracking a joke about his pelt not keeping him warm. Hank isn’t awake enough for the jab, though, and Connor finds he doesn’t want to tease him. Instead, he smiles, fondness lancing through him to pierce his heart.

“That’s what the blankets are for.”

Hank grunts again. “Come back to bed.”

“If you’re that cold,” Connor says, going back to the pile of clothes by the door, “dressing might help. Did you bring anything suitable with you?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Connor folds the rest of Hank’s outfit anyway, smoothing out any wrinkles he finds with a gentle touch. In his absence, Hank is forced to solve his own problem. Muttering to himself and making all manner of unseemly noises, especially sniffling, he manages to kick the blankets at his feet up into arm’s reach. He burrows beneath them, curling in on himself, until nothing is visible but the tip of his nose, his eyes, and a sleep-stirred mess of grey hair.

Connor pulls out a drawer. “I have a spare that might suit you,” he says, as if he doesn’t keep the too-big nightshirt specifically for the rare occasions on which Hank visits him. Hank lavishes Connor with gifts and services, when Connor lets him – not in an ostentatious display of wealth, but simply because Hank believes Connor deserves them. He likes to provide, and isn’t it just Hank’s luck that Connor lacks… most things, actually. In this one instance, however, Connor can give something in return.

Hank lifts himself up onto an elbow, threading his free hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes. The blankets, drawn inexorably downward, pool at the small of his back and expose shoulder blades subtly shifting under his skin. Nipples still a bit red from Connor’s teeth pebble with the chill. His eyes are tired, but they catch what little light the candle emits and turn it back to Connor in a blaze of riotous color.

Hank is beautiful.

Connor swallows down a lump in his throat, temporarily overwhelmed. The moment passes at a crawl, and he wishes – he _wishes_ they were downstairs, where he could get his supplies and capture what he sees forever. It would only be for them – for him, even, since Hank doesn’t like to look at himself – but Connor feels the urge so strongly he clenches his fists against it. He already knows which paints he’d mix to recreate the shadows under Hank’s jaw, how he would fix Hank’s eyes directly to his in a stare that’s both a challenge and a plea. He wants to.

“You’re staring,” Hank says, drawing Connor back to this room, this moment.

All Connor can do is nod. He reaches for the stool. “Could you hold still for a little while?”

Hank sighs, dropping his head. “Fuck me,” he groans, “I thought I recognized that look. It’s late, Con. I’m an old man.”

“You’re not.” Connor drags the stool into place, adjusting it a few times before he picks up the journal. His pencil sits tucked between the pages, next to a botanical study Connor had done on a daffodil in the palace gardens. He flips to a clean page. “And it won’t take me long. This isn’t an oil painting.”

Snorting, Hank shakes his head. “Good thing. Old Manfred probably wouldn’t want you wasting paint on a fucking boudoir piece of a washed up old fuck like me.” At Connor’s dirty look, he capitulates. “How do you want me?”

“Like you were, please, but tilt your chin…”

Hank tries to move back into place, but he can’t quite recapture what it was that electrified Connor in that first instant. Rather than leave him to shift around and become frustrated, Connor tucks the pencil back into his journal and gets up to approach the bed. Hank’s eyes blaze with what Connor expects is renewed desire, but right now he is a consummate professional. He gently guides Hank’s body into its original position, pressing and pushing with a warm hand searing into cool flesh. Hank goes without complaint. His eyes follow Connor’s movement, the inside of his lip just barely caught between his teeth.

Sinking his fingers into Hank’s beard, Connor tugs until his head is at the right angle.

“Perfect,” he whispers, stroking his thumb over Hank’s chin. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Yeah,” Hank sighs.

He’s the picture of a reluctant, long-suffering model, just the way he always is. It makes Connor smile.

“At least you don’t have to wear your stuffy clothes for this.”

“Small mercies.”

Connor bridges the gap between them and puts his lips to Hank’s, kissing him sweetly. He lingers longer than he should, forgetting his intended purpose. A hand sneaks out of place to wrap around the back of Connor’s neck. He pulls away, then, giving Hank’s beard a short, sharp jerk.

“You won’t distract me,” he says, going back to his stool. Hank grumbles behind him. “If you cooperate it’ll be done faster.”

Hank doesn’t speak again. When Connor turns to look, he’s holding perfectly still, exactly where he’d been placed. Cooperating. Compliant. It makes Connor want to throw the journal out the window and go back to bed, to manhandle Hank into still more pleasing positions, to wrap himself up in the safety of their blankets and not emerge until well after dawn. Good as that sounds, however, it would be a waste of effort now that he’s here.

He blocks out the basic outline of Hank’s body first, never lingering in one spot long before he moves to something else. Details come later. Paying special attention to the way Hank’s spine curves, the swell of his ass under rumpled blankets, the fine hairs raising on his arms, Connor nearly loses himself in the work before Hank clears his throat. Connor’s eyes dart there first, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Then he meets Hank’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Connor says, resenting the way he feels his cheeks heat up. He has a problem with intense focus – forgetting himself in the interest of his labor. He forgets other people, too, sometimes even to the point of no longer seeing them as people at all. They’re just lines, amorphous shapes, blobs of color. Connor hates doing it, especially to Hank.

A corner of Hank’s mouth twitches, the barest shadow of a smile. Connor recreates it with delicate hatches.

“Didn’t want you to slip away,” Hank says. “You about through? My arm’s getting tired.”

“I need to make a few notes on the colors I want to use, and then, yes.”

He ignores that temporarily in favor of shading Hank’s eyes, working carefully to match his expression. The eyes are the most important part. Without them, no one who sees the painting will know that this – all this – is for Connor. He wants everyone to know.

Unfortunately, Hank narrows his eyes in a squint. Pushing down his brief annoyance, Connor makes good on his promise and begins scribbling names of paints in the free spaces around the drawing.

“So you are going to paint this.”

“That was the intent,” Connor says, trying to recall a specific shade of blue.

“Connor…”

Already, Connor knows what the objections will be. He cuts off Hank’s argument before he can speak. “It’s not for anyone but myself. I intend to keep it here, in my bedroom, where no one visits but you. I’ll even stash it out of sight, if that puts you at ease, but I want to paint it.” He sighs. “I want you to see what I’m seeing, right now. I want to keep this moment forever. Painting is the only method I have to do that.”

“I know,” Hank sighs, but he doesn’t, really. He looks at the paintings Connor’s done for the king and sees their surface value, he recognizes Connor’s hard work, but he can’t see the emotional life behind them. He doesn’t understand why Connor paints him, again and again, purposefully ruining perfectly adequate pieces in the interest of starting new ones. Hank can’t see the artistic growth he’s encouraged, any more than he can see why it is Connor wants him.

Taking a deep breath, Connor gets off the stool and puts the pencil back inside his journal, leaving them both in the middle of the room. It’s an obvious sign that Connor’s done, that Hank can relax, but he stays in place with his brows furrowed even as Connor walks toward the bed.

“I love you,” Connor says, putting one knee on the mattress. It dips beneath his weight.

Hank shuffles away, either to make room for Connor or to retreat from his intensity. “I know,” he says again.

Connor shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “listen to me.” He moves fully onto the bed, looming above Hank on his knees. With a gentle shove of encouragement, Hank flops sideways, resting on his back. Still pliable. Still willing. “I’ve wanted you since the day we met, when you complained all through our session and told me to call you Hank. Do you remember?”

Hank huffs. “Of course I remember, I’m not senile yet–”

Connor throws a leg over Hank’s stomach and settles into his lap. Hank’s mouth shuts so quickly his teeth clack together.

“I thought you’d be like all the other noblemen,” Connor continues, like he hadn’t been interrupted. He spreads his hands out on Hank’s chest, running his fingers through the hair there. Dark graphite marks from the pencil create artificial shadows on their skin. “Selfish, spoiled, stupid. But you were kind to me, and you asked me questions, and you touched me. Right here.” Connor puts a finger to Hank’s temple, the same way Hank had done to him months ago. “I had paint on my face.”

“Fuck,” Hank groans, turning his head in an attempt to catch Connor’s finger in his mouth. Connor’s too quick. “You shouldn’t… jump into bed with someone just cause they’re nice to you. You deserve better than that.”

Connor smiles. “I do. That’s why I didn’t have you take me back to your apartments that first day.”

Hank doesn’t whine. He’s vehemently objected to the notion that he does in the past, but he makes a strangled, reedy noise that Connor would say is close enough.

“You never demanded anything of me,” Connor whispers, rocking his hips back to feel Hank’s length through the fabric of his nightshirt. It twitches against him. “You gave me your friendship long before anything else, simply because you’re a good man. You make _me_ want to be a good man.”

Brown curls tumble over Connor’s eyes as he drops his head. Hank reaches up and pushes them back in place. Connor sighs, takes that hand, and brings it to his cheek.

“If I had a fraction of the king’s wealth,” he whispers, “I’d resign as Carl Manfred’s apprentice and spend it all on painting you, just like this, and die happy. I love you.”

“All right,” Hank says, turning red. The flush starts in his cheeks and spreads outwards, to the tips of his ears and down his neck. He takes his hand back, covering his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Connor. Paint it. Paint whatever you want. Do a hundred artistic renderings of my cock.”

“You say that like it would be a bad thing,” Connor teases, reaching down behind his back to blindly grasp Hank’s member. He misses his mark by a fair bit, touching the still-slick skin around Hank’s asshole. Hank jumps.

“Hey, there,” he says, grabbing Connor’s thighs, “slow down. I’m not gonna be ready for that again just yet.”

Connor runs his hands down Hank’s arms to soothe him, picking at Hank’s fingers where they dig into the fabric of his nightshirt. When Hank finally lets go, Connor drags it over his head and flings it back out into the room, just as he had done earlier. It makes Hank laugh.

“Don’t worry,” Connor whispers, shifting up onto his knees. “It’s my turn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the wonderful [lumbeam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam) \- thank you for the use of this gorgeous au! Thanks also to [bughnrahk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bughnrahk) for the beta, and to Lauren and Morgan, as always.


End file.
